


A Dance with Destiny

by Banimal



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Does the Destiny Suit count as Crossdressing?, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hank's Destiny Suit, M/M, Unarmed Combat, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banimal/pseuds/Banimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock unintentionally activates a hidden feature of the S.P.H.I.N.X femme strength suit, and Hank gets more assistance than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dance with Destiny

Would you believe this has been sitting on my computer for a year? Jiminy Crickets. Anyway, enjoy some B-grade Venture Bros. smut! 

**A Dance with Destiny**

* 

Brock tilted Hank’s face as he wiped away smears of dried blood with a wadded-up cotton ball. The kid was nearly a grown man, yet he turned his eyes downcast, recalcitrant as they settled into a familiar routine. His cropped blonde hair had been combed through, and he fidgeted as Brock cupped his chin, turning his head to check if he’d missed any hidden crimson flecks.

“Hank, what the hell did you think you were doing? Those were dangerous people. Were you _trying_ to get killed?” Almost as soon as it was out of his mouth Brock regretted his words. The hurt look in the young man’s eyes reminded him how sensitive Hank could be despite all his adolescent bravado.

“I didn’t know! Not even Gary realised.” Hank looked down as he turned his shiny gold-plated knees inwards and mumbled “they were kinda nice once you got to know them.”

Brock sighed, tossing a damp red cotton ball in the wastebasket with a wet thud. He stood up to clap a firm hand on Hank’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze for reassurance. “You can’t just run off and join any militia willing to take you in. Who knows what could happen?”

There was a pause as Hank absorbed Brock’s advice before a sullen look darkened his expression. “I’ll tell you what would happen; maybe I’ll finally belong somewhere. Maybe I’ll succeed at something! Maybe I’ll be a super-awesome butt-kicking spy, like… like you!” He scowled at Brock, a molten flare of ambition burning in his eyes. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to make this happen?”

His outburst was short-lived. It only took one steely-blue stare from Brock to dispel the fog of fantasy engulfing Hank’s impressionable imagination. Reality became as clear, and as welcome, as brass knuckles to the teeth. The young Venture turned his attention back the floor, deflated.

Brock could only pinch the bridge of his nose (an old habit for every time one of the Ventures became emotional), “Ah jeeze, Hank!… you’ll get there eventually, alright? Just, don’t rush headfirst into something without thinking it through. I care about you. I don’t want to see you mixed up with people like that.”

“Mmyeah…” Hank muttered, but a smile tugged at his lips when Brock ruffled his hair, dispelling the tense atmosphere.

When Brock was satisfied that Hank was no longer mottled with the villainous blood of the ex-Cobra Commander, he stood up and wiped his hands off with a hand towel. He mused on how second nature it was to slip back into the role of Hank’s guardian. His concern for the Venture boys ran deep, and despite his new responsibilities with the OSI, he thought about them often. It was always a burden off his shoulders to know that those calamity-prone boys were alive and breathing, and to finally see them grow up and become men they were long overdue to become.

Perhaps it was Hank’s idolisation of him that earned the kid a particularly soft spot in the gristle heart beating beneath Brock’s titanium chest plate. He was the more adventurous of the two Venture brothers, and displayed a kind of integrity that he definitely hadn’t inherited from his father. What he lacked in brainpower he made up for with inexhaustible enthusiasm. He reminded Brock of himself in his younger days, and that was kind of touching.

So it was strange now to see the kid he’d practically raised from infancy strutting about in a hyper-feminised strength suit he’d pilfered from the S.P.H.I.N.X armoury.  

“Hank. You need to get out of that thing. You look ridiculous.”

Hank was unfazed. “Please. I don’t ascribe to your narrow-minded, heteronormative views on what a man should wear for body armour. This thing can punch through concrete, Brock! I can karate-chop twenty dudes at once. I’m invincible in this thing!”

“You’re not invincible.” _Not anymore._

Hank sat with one leg daintily crossed over the other and flexed a long golden arm, the metal armour shimmering like polished copper. The surface of the suit reflected the terracotta hues of the large bathroom they were in. It was spacious with hieroglyphic painted tiles covering every wall. He perched upon the edge of the large pewter spa bath, an ornate Anubis head with an open snout served as the faucet, which appropriately matched all the other Egyptian themed décor in the room. The faint hum of engines through the walls made it clear they couldn’t be anywhere but onboard the conspicuous S.P.H.I.N.X airship. 

“You can’t live your entire life inside a strength-suit.”

“Is that a challenge, Brock? Because it sounds to me like a challenge. Also, I don’t actually know how to take it off. This thing is _snug_.”

Brock approached Hank to take a closer look. “You sure there’s not some kind of latch on that thing?” He looked Hank up and down before a horrifying idea crossed his mind. “I mean, how do you, you know, _do your business_?” 

“Oh, there’s a detachable panel I can slide out if I need to take a wizz. Pretty neat, huh? Wanna see?”

“Ah, no. I’m good.”

Hank ran his golden fingers along the seams on the suit, searching its form to see if he’d missed any hidden features. He paused as he traced the ridges of the tawny leather collar encircling his throat, running a thumb over a switch at the base of the neck. 

“There’s this button here, but I never figured out what it does. I guess it’s broken.”

Brock cocked his head. “Let me see.”

He placed a hand on Hanks shoulder, tilting him forward to get a closer look. Indeed there he found a small black button at the point between Hank’s neck and shoulder blades, easy to miss for someone less keen of eye. In a lapse of caution Brock pressed it, only to wonder a second later if this wasn’t some unbuilt self-destruct feature ready to reduce the suit to a smouldering pile of ash, taking Hank, and Brock, with it.

He tensed in apprehension, but after an uneventful minute it looked unlikely that either of them were going to be immolated.

“See,” Hank rapped his knuckles against his shoulder, making a hollow metal sound, “busted. Maybe Pop can take a look and figure ou-”

Brock never did find out what Hank thought Rusty could have done. It was a golden blur and a blinding stab pain later before Brock realised what had just happened.

Mildly dazed and slumped against cracked wall tiles, he raised a hand to his throbbing cheek, tasting the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Realisation made it clear. Hank had _punched_ him.

He’d been struck with such force that he’d been propelled backwards, smashing through a frosted glass modesty screen. Hank stood before him, arm still outstretched and fist clenched. If Brock was surprised by this spontaneous act of aggression, Hank looked twice as shocked.

He spat out a broken tooth and took a long, deep breath inwards, only barely clinging to the wisp of control that tethered his temper. “Do you mind explaining what just happened there?”

“That wasn’t me! I swear I didn’t do that. I really didn’t wanna punch you in the face!” Hank babbled, tripping over his words trying to get them out fast enough.

The seasoned OSI agent got on his feet, brushing off plaster and glass. He warily kept his distance from the young man as he rekindled his deep mistrust for anything S.P.H.I.N.X branded. The blow had switched on his battle instincts, adrenaline flowing into his veins and preparing him for a fight. He was flooded with nostalgia, remembering the many covert missions he’d been sent on to destabilise the organisation during the long-fought Pyramid Wars, until ultimately he was sent into secret service purgatory bodygaurding for Dr. Venture. He recalled the next phase in his career, as he himself donned the gold and brown uniform. It was strange it how things changed. Who would have thought an awkward Venture teenager would be the next chapter in S.P.H.I.N.X’s story.

He raised a hand to stop Hank’s stuttering. “Hank, calm down. How often does the suit act on its own?”

“Only that one time, when Daddy Warlo- I mean the Commander made me sit in his lap.”

Brock had a fresh memory of the original Commander sprawled out in the cockpit with a crossbow arrow pierced through his throat, the early stages of rigor mortis settling into his lifeless corpse.

“Yeah. Can you think of anyone else who might be behind this?”

Hank shook his head just as his armour started to move again. Brock was ready for it this time. Golden legs crouched low, and swiftly launched Hank into an acrobatic somersault far beyond his natural athletic ability. Brock sidestepped and blocked a flying high-kick with his forearm, redirecting the force of the attack and sending Hank flying over his shoulder. The kid crashed into the full-length mirror, showering a rain of glass down upon him. Fortunately the suit easily withstood the impact and Hank emerged unscathed.

Brock’s fingers itched to grab his knife. He always felt better when that mahogany handle was resting in his palm. With effort he restrained himself, knowing that bringing a blade into the fray could render Hank mutilated and leave Brock with a whole lot of explaining to do for Dr. Venture.  

He studied the catlike motions of the suit, calculating its next move. He’d never have believed a mechanised suit of armour would be such a formidable opponent. Especially since Hank was the one currently inside it.

“Maybe it’s voice activated?” Hank pondered as he went in for another volley of punches aimed at Brock’s head. “Stop!” he said, without any effect. “I’m the master of you. I command it!”

“It was worth a shot,” Brock said as he ducked another high kick. His adrenaline was pumping now. It was the thrill of the fight and he _lived_ for it.

Their combat was interrupted when the bathroom door creaked open. Shore Leave peered through, gawking at them with a moustached grin. “Do you boys need a hand? I heard a ruckus”

“It’s okay. Hank’s suit just gained autonomous control over itself.”

“Oh goodie! You want to tag team? It’s been ages since I’ve had a proper cat fight.”

Brock dodged another assault, rolling forward to avoid a side kick to the head. “I’ll handle it.”

The flamboyant OSI agent rested a hand on his hip and pouted. “Oh pooh, you get all the fun!” He lingered at the door observing them, not even trying to hide how thoroughly amusing he found the scene.

“ _I’ll handle it!”_

“Alright, fine! I get the hint! Well I’ll leave you boys to it. Tidy up when you’re done, okay? I’m not going to be the one that always cleans up your mess.”

The door clicked shut. Leaving the two men to face off once more. Shore Leave’s appearance only punctuated the absurdity of the situation.

“This is actually kind of cool. Fighting you, I mean.” Hank reflected as he manoeuvred around Brock, hands positioned in front of him like a cobra ready to strike. “I mean, I’ve seen you wail on thousands of dudes. But it’s different _being_ that dude.”

“Yeah. It’s different. This time I’m trying _not_ to kill you.”

Brock couldn’t shake the twinge of déjà vu niggling him. It was something about the sultry poses and elegant combat moves that just felt so damn _familiar_. It wasn’t until Hank kicked the feet out from under him, sending Brock crashing to the floor, that the he was able to put his finger on it.

“Mol.” He hissed between clenched teeth, attempting to pry apart the shiny thighs clamping around his neck.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” he groaned. Sweat dripped and veins bulged as Brock summoned every ounce of his strength to try and throw Hank off him. He could hear the inner mechanism of the suit grinding and whirring as it made its own efforts to keep the large man pinned to the floor. Hank’s legs constricted and tightened around his throat.

It was testament to the power of the armour that it was able to hold its own against Brock’s inhuman strength. Hank mercifully scooted backwards to straddle his chest, keeping Brock restrained with a tight grip on his wrists. Long legs released their hold on his neck, and Brock’s burning lungs finally had a chance to choke in a breath. The suit had the upper hand. Brock was sure it would go in for the finishing blow.

He steeled himself, expecting a swift snap to the neck, or possibly thumbs gouged into his eye sockets, so it was strange when Hank just sat there with a very peculiar expression.

“Uh, Brock, are… are you feeling that”

“What the…” At first Brock was mystified, but as his focus switched from the pain of the hands gripping his wrists to the weight on his chest, he immediately understood what was happening. 

“Hank, why is your suit vibrating?”

“Why are you asking me?! I thought it was some battle move I didn’t know about.”

Brock squirmed. The vibrations were beginning to intensify, sending quivers of sensation down his body that he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with. “No. I’m pretty sure this isn’t a battle move…”

However strong the pulsations were for Brock, it couldn’t have been half as intense as what Hank was experiencing inside that suit. His cheeks flushed a shade of pink and he chewed his bottom lip, unable to escape the confines of his armour. If the vibrations weren’t enough, to Brock’s alarm Hank slowly began to gyrate on top of him, grinding his gilded backside against the navy blue fabric of Brock’s standard issue uniform. He lowered his upper body and pressed a firm metallic bosom flush against Brock’s chest.

“Brock, I swear to you, I’m not doing this.” Hank squeaked, embarrassment blooming on his face.

“Well that’s obvious.” Brock said, becoming increasingly unsettled by the vulgar moves Hank was using on him. Hank swivelled, moving his vibrating hips down lower, and to Brock’s horror straddled his hips, grinding his plated crotch against the cut of his pants. If that wasn’t enough, he arched his back in an exaggerated porn star pose, gasping in a way that Brock found very unnecessary. 

He decided this was a perfect time to wriggle his way out of this mortifying situation. With the suit preoccupied with it’s grinding and gyrating, its grip on Brock’s wrists had slackened. Seizing the opportunity, Brock yanked his arms away and flipped their positions, using his weight to press Hank to the floor, immobilising him.

“Whoa!” Hank yelped. The suit’s vibration kicked into double-time, so powerful it oscillated his voice when he spoke. “Tha-a-a-a-a-t’s no-o-o-o-t helping!” 

Torsos were pushed together, and their faces so close Brock could feel the hot puffs of Hank’s rapid breaths against his cheek. His golden legs spread wide before wrapping themselves around Brock’s waist, making sure there was no distance between them. Sharpened nails protracted from tapered fingertips, but rather than slashing and stabbing, they delicately glided across his back, shredding the spandex of his O.S.I uniform. Strips of fabric fluttered to the ground, exposing an expanse of toned muscle. This suit meant business.

Brock looked down at the visage of this young man, wide-eyed and breathless. The sight of it awoke something animalistic inside the OSI agent, and it alarmed him.

“Hank.”

“Ye-e-es Brock?”

He swallowed, mouth dry. “I think I’ve activated some kind of… _seduction_ mode. I’m going to try and press that button again. That might stop it. ” 

Hank gave a slight nod; clearly overwhelmed. “O-o-o-okay.”    

Brock wondered if he hadn’t heard a slight note of disappointment in Hank’s voice. He ignored it. It was hard to think clearly now. The stimulations that the suit had programmed into it would have affected anyone with warm blood, and Brock was only human. It especially didn’t help how eerily similar this felt to his run-ins with Molotov. The aggression mixed with feminine allure was a combination that drove Brock crazy. He had to do something before the situation escalated beyond his control. 

A hand slipped between his legs, the razor sharp nails retracting to gently caress his inner thigh, working its way higher. Brock couldn’t waste any more time. He roughly grabbed the back of Hank’s neck, ignoring the small cry of protest, and ran his fingers along the ridges, desperately trying to locate that small button.

His pinkie finger nudged against the little node, and with a sigh of relief he pressed it, praying that this didn’t make the situation worse.

With some effort he managed to push their bodies apart. He looked Hank over, inspecting him for any change. The kid’s eyes were closed and his lips were parted, utterly lost in the moment. Encased in that tight fitting femme suit, it was easy to forget that it was a young man concealed behind those artificial breasts. The metal felt oddly warm against his exposed skin, perhaps due to the energy of the vibrations. Unable to resist any longer, Brock ran his hand up Hank’s waist, stopping to cup the aureate mounds of his breastplate. He couldn’t help but think of Molotov - her heaving bosom pressed against his torso, her long red hair, framing her beautiful, wicked face. He thought of the juncture between her legs —once locked away — yet still an impossible fantasy. A torture designed only for him.  

It was a surprise when the hollow breast in his hand came loose. He was left holding an empty cup and looking down at a circle of pale skin that was Hank’s lamentably flat chest.

Hank’s eyes opened, snapped back to the present. He sat up when he saw Brock, holding a piece of his chest plate. “Brock! It’s working! The suit’s coming off. Do whatever you did again.”

“Ah…” A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. Not knowing what else to do he acquiesced, using his free hand to cradle Hank’s right breast. Already he could feel the metal loosen from its fitting. Even if it wasn’t really a part of the kid’s body, Brock still felt a twinge of shame. His concerns didn’t stop the flair of heat pooling in his loins. Hanks hips rocked against his, responding to the touch. Whether this was the suit’s response, or Hank’s own actions, Brock couldn’t say.

Brock’s wandering hands worked their way down to the exaggerate curve of the suit’s narrow waist. Hank wasn’t exactly scrawny, so it was amazing how he’d managed to squeeze himself into such restrictive confines. Brock’s conscience wrestled with his libido. He was a man of control – to a point. The edge was fast approaching and taking advantage of Hank wasn’t something he ever could have contemplated even in the darkest depths of his imagination. Squeezing his eyes shut, he clenched his teeth as he grappled with his urges.

A gilt hand cupped his cheek, startling him out of his inner turmoil. Brock opened his eyes and saw the young Venture staring him in earnest.

Hank’s voice was calm. “It’s okay if you want to touch me...that would be…nice.” He cocked his head and flashed a reassuring Venture smile so typical of him. The hand between Brock’s legs splayed out, cupping the significant bulge that had appeared, slowly kneading the delicate area with expert attention.

“Fuck,” Brock hissed, deciding he was done with thinking. “We’re getting you out of that suit.”

He pushed some distance away from Hank, making sure the body beneath him was still safely restrained. He ran his thumbs along the seams of the suit, searching for any weakness in the design. This was a man whom had thrown cars across rooms and bent the steel bars of prison windows. Even a titanium reinforced strength suit wasn’t going to stop him. He found leverage in the exposed areas of the metal and began to pry it away. A series of loud cracks reverberated as gears tore apart, resisting the sheer force of Brock’s might. Memories of Molotov’s chastity belt surged into his mind. Brock put everything he had into tearing apart that metal. The frustration, the desperation, the sheer _urgency_ of it all fuelled his strength as the tendons in his muscles bulged with strain.

Hank yelped as the mechanisms sprung open. Pieces of his suit scattered across the floor like the shell of an exoskeleton. With Brock’s help he was able to slink out of the arms and legs of the device, finally freeing him from the gold prison. After so much time protected from the elements, his skin had become hypersensitive. The first contact with the cold bathroom tiles made him gasp in shock. His fingers still gloved in the last remaining item on the suit, gripped Brock’s shoulder, quivering as his body was finally exposed to the world.

One thing became immediately obvious when Brock looked down at the flustered young man.  

“You, uh, didn’t think to put on any clothes under that suit?”

Hank gave a shy grin, turning his knees inward in modesty. “Brock, squeezing into this baby was a _challenge._ This suit was like the mother of all skinny jeans. But next time I might have to, because I’ll be honest with you,” he rubbed his hip with a grimace, “it was starting to chafe.”

Brock ignored Hank’s mention of a ‘next time’ as he looked down at the kid. He was a far different sight out of the suit. His smooth unblemished skin was covered with a fine sheen of sweat. He was more prone to tanning than his brother, so only a few sparse freckles peppered his shoulders. Clearly the experience had weakened him. After relying on a suit to perform all his physical needs it really wasn’t any wonder. What Brock couldn’t help but notice was Hank’s erection, straining against his belly in need. He sucked in a breath, a primal lust pumping through his veins.

Hank swallowed, unable to even blink as he met Brock’s hungry eyes. “I-if you want to do something to me, you can…” There was only a second of hesitation before he leaned forward, pressing their lips together. Clearly the boy had limited experience with this, but Brock returned the clumsy embrace with vigour. He gathered the boy in his arms, raising him from the floor and placing one hand behind his head to hold him still as their tongues lightly brushed.

He felt Hank’s slight intake of breath. After the struggled to get him out of that suit, he revelled at the sensation of skin contact—a fine reward for his efforts. Hank spread his legs to straddle the larger man, wrapping his arms around that wide chest, hands not even able to meet around the warm expanse of weathered skin and taut muscle. At this proximity he could feel the erratic hammering of Hank’s heart and listened to his breathless panting as they pulled away from the kiss. In an effort to calm the kid, he ran a soothing hand along his back, placing his mouth against an exposed neck, sucking lightly, careful not to bruise the skin.

“Oh my god,” Hank mumbled, gripping Brock a little tighter and squirming in his lap. It felt natural to reach down to cup and squeeze one of Hank’s buttocks, which caused the young Venture to jump slightly, creating some much-needed friction between them. A low moan escaped from him, sending more shockwaves of heat through Brock.

Brock realised he was still wearing his standard issue spandex pants. For a man of Brock’s endowment, they did very little to disguise his demanding arousal. He paused from his attention on Hank to shuck them down low enough to reveal his own, rather more intimidating erection, giving it a few firm strokes with a groan.

Hank glanced down between their bodies before returning Brock’s gaze, wide-eyed and just a little fearful. It wasn’t until this moment had he realised how deep a situation he was in. He clutched at his former bodyguard, unsure what the next step was going to be.

Honed to notice even subtlest change in behaviour, Brock detected Hank’s apprehensiveness. That irritating niggle of guilt returned, even as his body howled for gratification. He recalled the moment Hank had been lowered in the memory wipe machine, arms raised in jubilation before the memories of his first, and only sexual experience were irrevocably stripped from his neurons. Brock never thought it would be him to return what Hank had lost.

He took a deep breath, looking towards the ceiling for some divine entity to give him strength.

“Hank, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“No!” Shouted Hank, a little too quickly. “I mean, yes, I do want this. I really do. It’s just…” His eyes flicked downwards, taking in the sight of Brock’s immense cock. Heat rose to his cheeks, avoiding the older man’s gaze. “Is it going to hurt?”

Brock, sighed, running his fingers through Hank’s hair and pulled him close for another gentle kiss. “Nothing has to hurt,” he murmured and felt Hank nod in understanding. The body wrapped around him relaxed a little, becoming more pliant in his arms.

“Lie back.” He commanded, his voice low and resonating.

Hank shivered against him but the kid was quick to comply, wriggling off Brock’s lap and stretching across the cool tiled surface once again. He looked down at his own neglected cock, clearly wanting to attend to it, but instead he chewed his lip, suppressing his hormonal urges as he waited for Brock’s next instruction.

“Spread your legs.”

He slowly turned his knees outwards, baring himself to the other man. His face redder than Brock had ever seen it. He leaned back on his elbows, nerves jangling as he waited. Hank didn’t have the usual anatomy Brock was used to with his bed partners, but with his youth, subtly defined body and innocent disposition, the kid had a lot going for him.

Brock approached Hank, moving the boy’s legs to sit either side of him. He took Hank in his hand, giving his cock some slow rhythmic strokes, grinning as the young man arched into the touch.

“Oh, oh!” Hank squirmed, closing his eyes as he became lost in the sensation. It was like the kid had never been touched before. Brock let his other hand caress the boy’s thigh, rubbing his skin in circular patterns, watching in awe how his simple touches undid the kid. Hank was in sensory heaven, bucking into Brock’s grip and whining, demanding even more attention. Brock’s teenage years were so far behind him it depressed him to think about it. He had forgotten how easy he had been to please at that age. It wasn’t hard to remember how easy it was for Rusty. There had been many a lonely night in the college dorm when the aspiring super scientist thought Brock was sleeping and indulged himself in a little solo hanky-panky.

Hank huffed, following the hypnotic motion of Brock’s hand. “I’ve though about you sometimes. In bed, when I do this.”

“Oh?” Brock cocked and eyebrow.

“But who wouldn’t!” He stressed, quick to follow the thought. “You’re Brock Sampson! You’re like, the greatest secret agent in the world. Sometimes I think, maybe, maybe I can’t be like you, but I could…” He gasped as Brock increased his speed, applying more pressure. “Maybe I could be _with_ you, like this…” He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back, bucking into Brock’s steady grip.

“Heh.” Brock couldn’t help but smile.

His own body vibrated with need. He wanted more. He wanted to bend Hank over and fuck him into the ground until he was paraplegic. It was a distant concern that this panting, whining mess before him was Hank Venture, the son of Dr Thaddeus Venture, his former employer and oldest friend. Idly he considered his options. He was sure there was something in this bathroom that could act as sufficient lube, but they wouldn’t have a condom, and Brock’s sizeable appendage wasn’t exactly ‘beginner level’ stuff.

Hank looked up at him, eyes glassy, wanton and so full of trust. With a growl of resignation, Brock knew he couldn’t follow through with his intentions 

He paused to pull the boy closer. “Hank,” he growled, controlling the waver of mania in his voice, “press your thighs together.”

Hank looked confused, but did as Brock said, pulling his legs up from either side to clamp them shut. Brock got to his knees and positioned himself, lifting Hanks legs backwards slightly, thankful for the boy’s flexibility. Panic crossed Hank’s face when he saw Brock aim his cock at the juncture of those smooth thighs.

“Relax kid, this will feel fine.”

It wasn’t what he wanted, not really. But it would do. He tilted his hips forward, slipping his cock between taut hamstrings in an act of pseudo-penetration. It slid past tight quad muscles and brushed across Hank’s cock, which was already pearled with droplets. It certainly wasn’t comparable to the warm, wet, tightness he craved—but to feel himself slide across the exquisite valleys of Hank’s youthful skin sent shockwaves of pleasure through him. He sensed a tremor through the young Venture, tensing his legs muscles even more, desperate to please the man above him.

“God,” he hissed, rolling his hips forward, slipping through the crevice Hank had created. Perspiration provided enough slick to allow their bodies to work together. Hank pushed forward to meet Brock’s thrusts, whining every time their dicks slid past each other.

“Brock, fuck, this feels so good." 

“Hey. Watch your language.”

Hank was bold enough to sneak his hand into the action, adding and extra squeeze and caress when he could, and rocked his hips in time, putting everything he could into the experience. Brock doubled his speed, listening to vicious slaps of skin against skin as he bucked against the boy, loving every sound and sight and sensation.

“Ah, Brock, I’m gonna—”

Brock was surprised Hank had lasted even this long, and watched as the kid contorted, open mouthed as white streaks painted his stomach.

“Ah, damn it!” With a final thrust Bock followed suit, spilling himself between Hank’s legs, letting it spread and dribble to mingle the boy’s own release. 

They stayed like that for a few moments. Brock, hovering over Hank with his softening cock still clutched between firm thighs. Hank lay panting on the floor with damp strands of blond hair matted to his forehead, utterly drained of all energy or thought. Eventually Bock pulled away, tugging is pants back up and reaching for the OSI utility belt that had been detached in the commotion. He rummaged through the satchel, retrieving a cigarette and placing it between his lips; taking a blissful minute to bask in the afterglow before dared to let his brain face the facts.

“Holy Toledo.” Hank mumbled, lying prostrate on the ground, his drooping eyes staring at nothing in particular. “Oh, hey. Do you think I can have one those?”

In any other circumstance he might have refused. Instead Brock placed another cigarette in his mouth and lit it in one smooth motion. He took a slow, satisfying drag before handing the smouldering stick to Hank. “Sure.”

Hank accepted the cigarette, however he simply placed it between his lips, not attempting to inhale. He let the smoke waft around his head until the cherry red of the ember died away.

They remained like that, content with the stoic silence between them. The fumes of nicotine helped Brock place his thoughts in order. Finally with some peace, he could hear the ambient noises of at aircraft once more. The continuous hum of the ship’s engines filtered into the bathroom. Hank’s eyes fluttered shut, and he wondered if the kid had drifted to sleep.

A resounding barrage of knocks on the door shattered the spell. Hank jerked awake, sitting upright in alarm.

“Aw crap!” Hank stuttered, leaping to his feet and bunching up wads of toilet paper in a desperate bid to remove the evidence splattered across his stomach. Devoid of any other clothing, he scrambled to retrieve the components of the strength suit. He began to clamp the shelled pieces back around his unsteady legs.

Unruffled, Brock remained seated on the bathroom floor and helped himself to another smoke. “Seriously, Hank? You’re putting that thing on again? Hasn’t it caused enough trouble?”

“Au contraire my friend, this suit is a problem _solver. ‘Where are my pants?_ ’ you may ask. Right here!” He clipped the crotch plate on at the exact moment the door swung open.

“Heeelloooo fellas. Didn’t miss anything exciting did I?” Shore Leave appeared at the doorway, far more abruptly than last time.

Hank and Brock looked up at him, both in various states of undress. The bathroom was in complete disrepair.

The ostentatious man placed his hand to his mouth, almost giggling with mirth. “Oh you naughty boys!" 

Brock raised himself to a stand, brushing dust off his pants, remaining calm and emotionless. “Hank’s suit went into auto assault. Things got a little out of hand but I neutralised the situation.” 

“Yeah!” Hank piped in. “You should have seen him. It was all like ‘pew pew, kapow, blammo! Completely _nuts_.”

Shore Leave folded his arms unconvinced. “Mm hmm. Well, whatever. If you kids want to get cleaned up before the debriefing there’s another bathroom downstairs. Try to not wreck that one _too_.”

With a flick of the wrist he about-faced and walked away.

 

 


End file.
